Bruce’s a smart boy—not that he considers himself some great mastermind—it’s just what the pup’s heard all his life. Alfred says he’s got an eye for mannerisms. Bruce’s not too sure what the old beta means, but he trusts him well enough.

So Bruce is, by the admittance of his relatives, a keen-eyed pup. This of course means that he noticed every time his parents got sideways glances at events. Every oddly phrased comment about ‘getting an alpha around’ and him ‘growing up in these conditions’ was taken in, if not completely understood.

Why did it matter if there wasn’t an alpha around?

Apparently, it mattered plenty. Mattered enough to bleed into the galas, saccharine smiles and introductions to eligible alpha bachelors—in case the Wayne couple wanted a third. Mattered enough to be the most frequently asked interview question. ’Mr. Wayne, what made you choose your mate?’ And ‘Mrs. Wayne, did you ever see yourself falling into such a scandalous relationship?’

Mattered enough that when Martha and Thomas Wayne were killed at the Monarch Theatre, the outcry lasted as long as it took for their identities to leak.

“You can go away now,” Bruce mutters mulishly to the desk, scowl on his face hard. The pup’s still reeling from the absence of his parent’s bondmarks, from the nightmares that haunt him everytime he closes his eyes, to care about appearances. The station’s been a revolving door of social workers and conversations about Bruce as if the pup wasn’t right there. “I want to go home.”

The room goes quiet, but somehow sadder. Bruce notices, but doesn’t comment beyond tucking his chin closer to his chest. He doesn’t care about niceties, putting on a good face. There’s no one to impress here—just the heavy hand of Detective Gordon on his shoulder, the pitying rosemary scent of the social worker in the corner, and the stillness of the person sat across from him.

“I don’t care who you are or how you know me," Bruce'd missed the other's introduction, claimed family relation. "I want to stay with Alfred, not you."